Valentine's Day
by Jet MacLeod
Summary: What is it about Valentine's Day that always brings them back together when they need each other the most?


She lay there and wondered how everything had gone so wrong. She was alone and in a City that she was starting to hate. There was nothing really left for her there. She didn't want to go home. That would be admitting defeat and that was the one thing that she would never do. She would never tell her mother that she gave up. She wasn't brought up to give up. She'd fought for everything that she had now and she wasn't about to just let it go without a fight.

Except for her wife...she'd fought until she realized that she was actually fighting herself. In high school, they had been wonderful. College broke them apart, but they tried to fight the distance. In the end, they actually grew up and apart from each other. The romance wasn't enough to sustain their relationship and being the better person, she realized it. She let her go because it was the right thing to do. It was hard and not something that she was willing to do again.

Now, she shied away from relationships. Once bitten and twice shy and all that... She didn't want to be tied down again. She couldn't see herself with anyone that she tried to date. Except that bottle of Patron that seemed to be never ending...except in her bank account each time it got replaced. He became her new lover and they shared their love for each other every night until she passed out in her bed, hopefully. She wasn't stupid...all the time. She'd learned from friends and lovers during high school how drunk she could actually get before thinks turned ugly. And, she tried. She really did not want to revert, but she was lonely and horny, a very lethal combination for her. She'd been cranky and down right evil the last few weeks and she knew why.

She hadn't been laid. She had no outlet for her frustration. Usually a good tumble and she'd been good for a few days, but honestly the only action she'd been seeing was the bottom of her shot glass in her brownstone. She hated her life.

She wasn't even mad that she wasn't in the studio. She knew that she shouldn't be singing right now. So, she fell back on her actual degree. Music and arguing...it made for an interesting combination in the court room. Music was her other outlet. Law let her argue and get paid for it. For her, it was a win-win. But, when her music didn't take off like she'd hoped, she turned to the courtroom for that adrenaline rush and so far it hadn't failed her. She was still performing, but now it was in front of judge and jury. Karaoke nights were never the same.

She took another shot and looked at the bottle of Patron. Pouring another shot, she sat back and waited. For what, she didn't know. It as like she was hoping for an epiphany to strike her. When it didn't, she took the shot. Dropping the glass on her coffee table, she sat back on her leather couch and smiled.

It was a sickeningly sweet smile, one that definitely spoke of trouble ahead and she knew it. Her keys were across the room. She wouldn't leave her brownstone...not tonight anyway. Shifting her eyes towards her laptop, she clicked on her calendar. She didn't have court for three days. She could have a two day binder and still be good for court on Tuesday. It was perfect. She'd drink herself into a stupor and drown her pain with a nonexistent worm, she thought she swallowed two bottles ago.

A pounding in her head made her wonder how many shots she actually had. Looking at the bottle it was nearly empty. She leaned back and tried to remember how full it was before she had started that evening to no avail. She could barely remember her name at this point, which felt like a good thing. So, she decided that she'd stop there for now because the pounding was really loud. Wait, what? When did the pounding in her head have noise?

She looked out the window again. It was dark. Well past her normal bed time and the occasional drop in booty call that she might have arranged the day before. Who was stupid enough to be at her door at this hour? If there truly was someone at her door. She still didn't know. She wasn't sure if there was and she wasn't sure that she'd be able to get to the door, either. She was drunker than she thought.

She pulled out her cell phone. A feat that took longer than it should have, but she kept dropping it. Finally getting it up towards her face, she opened her security app. Remember the rash of break ins a few years ago, she put up cameras and got the best security system money could buy. She kept it updated, too, especially after the divorce. It wasn't because she was worried about her ex. She knew that her ex didn't have a petty bone in her body. No, she kept it up for the crazy people and the randos that she brought home to fuck. She needed to make sure that they didn't' steal from her or come back often, uninvited.

Blinking a few times, she looked at her phone. The picture was in black and white to the IR camera. She could make a body, a person, standing there, beating on her door. They didn't look like they were in a uniform, so she decided to ignore. But, the pounding didn't stop. Finally she had enough. She turned on the lights flanking her doorway and illuminated the stairs and stoop that her late night caller were standing on. The camera switched modes back to a color picture and she lost her breath as soon as she saw the blond hair.

There were only two blondes in her life, her ex and her sometimes best friend. Neither of them lived in the City. In fact, she hadn't seen either of them since the divorce a year ago. She squinted at the phone, trying to make out who was really at her door, but she was no closer to an answer than she was as soon as she saw the color of her hair.

She hit the intercom button to the camera system and spoke to the blond stranger outside her door.

"Back up," she told them.

The blond complied and the banging stopped.

 _Thank God for that. Now, who are you?_ She asked herself as she took in the form before the camera again.

Sighing, she looked them over. They seemed to be taller than she was, but she couldn't tell if they were wearing heels or not. So, that didn't really help her any. The stranger wasn't looking up at the camera. They were staring directly at the door. So, she couldn't really make out their face, not that she could with as drunk as she was.

"You're blurry," she said, forgetting that intercom was still on.

"Open the door."

"I don't know you," she told them.

"Yes, you do. Just open the door and put down the bottle of Patron. He can't help you anymore."

"And, you can?" she asked the blonde on her stoop.

"I could."

"Why?"

"Because for some stupid, idiotic reason I care about you."

"Why?" she questioned again.

"Some days, I wonder that myself."

"Who called you?"

"No one in particular and everyone that's already tried to help you," the figure replied.

"Well aren't you little miss vague."

The blonde didn't take the bait. Instead, she moved towards the door and started banging again. It was like she knew that it would annoy her enough to open it.

"I'll just keep banging until you let me in."

"Do you have booze?"

"No."

"Then, I don't need your advice. I don't need your help. And, I most definitely don't need you banging on door this late at night."

"It's barely eight o'clock on a Friday."

She sat up on the couch. She looked at her cable box and sure as shit it was just passed eight PM. When had her life become this unraveled? She stared at the nearly empty bottle of Patron and the shot glass on the table. She'd only been home for little over an hour and she was already this drunk.

"Fuck me..."

"Umm...is that an invitation?" the blonde quipped and went back to pounding on the door.

"NO!"

"Let me in so I can make sure that your liver isn't going to fail tonight."

"Who made me your responsibility?"

"You did."

"When?" she asked quickly.

She felt like she was sobering up and she didn't like it. Things were starting to hurt and make sense again. She wasn't supposed to be thinking right now. She was supposed to be plastered enough to make it to her bed and pass out. Sleep, deep, meaningful, dreaming sleep was overrated. Drunken, passed out sleep made her forget and let her not deal with everything. It was perfect. But, now, someone was on her stoop and they weren't exactly going away. Her buzz was fading and the real world and her feelings were starting to creep back in.

 _No me gusta._

"You don't remember?" the voice brought her back to the stranger on her doorstep and wondering why she wasn't calling the cops to get them removed.

"I think I would have remembered asking for help."

"No you wouldn't."

"Why do you say that?" she countered.

"Because you so rarely do it that you try to forget it as soon as you do it."

 _Damn, they really do know me. Fuck. What should I do? What to do?_

"Show me your face," she demanded.

"Open the door and you'll have all of me," the blonde quipped.

She stood up. Still staring at her phone, she made her way across the first floor and towards the front door of her three story brownstone. Sighing and wishing that she really wasn't doing this, she went anyway. Curiosity winning every time. It was why she went through everything no matter who's house/place/office/etc. it was. It was just her thing and most of her friends had dealt with her compulsion one time or another.

She stood in front of the door and looked out the peep hole. It was right in line with the stranger on her stoop, but now the stranger wasn't facing the door. She couldn't figure out why they were being so secretive with their identity. However she had a better idea on who was at her door. And, honestly, she didn't want to deal with it.

"Go away," she told them through the door.

"Nope."

"I am not in the mood for this right now. Just leave me alone. I'll call the cops."

"No you won't," the stranger told her.

"You know me well enough to say that?" she asked.

"Yes."

"How so?"

"I've known you since grade school. Open the door. I came all this way to see you the least you could do is let me in," the blonde replied.

"I didn't invite you," she stated.

"You didn't, no. But our mutual friends did. They're worried about you," the blonde said.

"I don't want company," she shouted at the door as she backed away a little.

"I'm not company and you know it. Just open the damn door. I'm not leaving you alone tonight, so you can just give up on that thought," the blonde yelled back a little more irritated than before.

"NO!"

"You must have forgotten that I have a key," the blond stranger said.

Her head shot up. Her suspicions on who it was were now confirmed. Only two other people that weren't her ex-wife had a key. One of them should have been on stage and the other out of state. She knew that her ex was out of the country.

Then her angry surged. Why would they call her? And, why now? Heads would roll Monday morning as soon as she figured out who actually made the call, as long as she wasn't so hung over that she could remember to do it.

She looked at her phone in her hand. She opened it back up and closed the security app. Searching through her phone, she found her memo reminder app. She quickly typed in a memo and added it to her calendar. Now, she had no reason to forget.

"Are you going to make me use my key?" the blonde called out.

"I'm not opening the door," she called back.

"Fine, I'm coming in. I was trying to be nice, but I see that isn't going to work with you tonight. How much have you already had to drink?"

She heard a key in the lock. She looked back up at the door, shook her head in disgust and went back into her living room. Dropping on the leather couch again, she reached forward, righted one of the shot glasses and poured the last little bit of Patron in it.

The blonde made her way into the house. She closed the door and locked it. Coming into the living room, she dropped her bags next to the love seat that was beside the couch. She looked her drunk friend over and saw the shot of Patron in her hand. Leaning over the dark, wooden coffee table, she took the shot out of her friend's hand and then shot it back.

"Smooooth," the blonde stated as she slammed the shot glass on the table.

"That was my last shot!" she stated as she shot up off the leather sofa to get in the blonde's face.

"Good, you didn't need anymore tonight," the blonde replied.

She watched as the blonde moved around the table and sat down beside her. She took in her appearance, but she didn't say anything more about it. Watching the blonde closely, she sat there and waited for her to say something more.

"Did you forget our pact?"

"No...yes...which one?" she asked as she leaned a little forward.

She couldn't handle looking in her hazel eyes. She didn't want to see the disappointment. _Great,_ she thought. She had always been a weepy drunk and she hated feelings just because of what they were. She really didn't have a use for them, because in her mind, they just caused her pain. And, she hated pain most of all.

"Come on," the blonde replied.

"Where we going?" she asked as she laid back into the leather and sunk into its cushion.

"I'm taking you upstairs to bed. You need to sleep this off. I'll talk to you for real in the morning. So get up. Let's go," the blonde stated as she stood up and offered her a hand to stand up.

She looked at the pale hand with her dark eyes. She studied it. She knew that hand almost as well as she knew her own. She blinked a few times and the looked up into the blonde's welcoming eyes.

"San, stop fighting me and let's get you to bed. You need to sleep this off. I'll get your water and pills ready for you, too. Come on," Quinn told her.

"Who called you?" she asked as she reached for Quinn's hand.

"Besides Berry?"

"Yeah," Santana replied.

"Brittany called after Rachel emailed her. She knew that you didn't want to hear from her about the drinking. Then, Sam called me after he and Mercedes had her tour stop here. They said that you weren't doing well. They called me a month ago."

"So you just decided to show up now?" Santana questioned as she stood up shakily.

Quinn huffed as she pulled up friend upright. She turned and looked into her hurting, dark eyes. Eyes that she'd lost herself in several times in the past, and she hoped that somehow she could bring back the light that was once there, the vibrancy and the life tht shown for all to see. This person wasn't her Santana. This was a shell, a broken woman, who'd forgotten that there were plenty of people that loved her for who she was and that she was good enough.

"I had things to do and I figured that you'd snap out of it."

"Well, we both see that didn't work, now did it?" Santana quipped with her usual sardonic ire.

"Well, no, it didn't. I thought that maybe you'd be big enough to pick up a phone, but I see I was wrong. I should have known better. You've never liked asking for help and you hate to be wrong. If Rachel hadn't stressed to me how bad you seemed to her at your last luncheon, I still wouldn't be here."

"Why not?"

"Because when we talk on the phone, you seemed sober enough that I wasn't that worried about it. Now, I know why you wouldn't Skype or Facetime with me. You didn't want me to see you like this. Have your forgotten so much of our childhood, San, that you would rather drink yourself stupid than ask me to come stay with you until you get out of this funk?"

Santana hung her head. She knew that Quinn was right. And, for the life of her, she couldn't remember them making it up the stairs and into her own room. But there she was, sitting on her bed, staring up at Quinn, who looked like she was about to cry.

"I'm sorry."

"You promised that you wouldn't do this anymore after the divorce."

"I know."

"Then what set you on this binder, this time, San?" Quinn asked her as she knelt down and removed her heels.

She tossed the shoes towards Santana's closet. San fell back on the bed and just stared at the ceiling. She didn't know what to say. Quinn had come up from Boston and her own life to help her fix things and she didn't know where everything went wrong.

"I don't know what to say."

"Start from the beginning, I find that it is a good place," Quinn told her as she reached up her legs and pulled down her hose.

"If you wanted me naked..."

"All I had to do was ask, I know, San. Now is not the time. You're plastered and you know it. Do you even remember coming upstairs?"

"No."

"Then, let me do this and get your in bed, okay?"

"Okay," Santana replied and let her body go limp.

She knew that Quinn would take care of her. She wasn't afraid of that. She was afraid of the memories. She was afraid of the fantasies that they could elicite.

Quinn slipped her out of her power suit. She wondered if San had court that morning. She doubted it because it wasn't one of her winner suits. It was just one of her basic power suits. She wanted to laught to herself because she knew the difference between the two.

Once she had San down to her matching black lace underwear set, she pushed her over enough to get the sheets pulled back. She pushed and pulled the very drunk and very tired Latina around until she got her under the covers. Pulling the covers up to her chest, she moved away from the bed.

She picked up her heels and the pieces of her suit. She went into Santana's giant walk-in closet. She hung up the jacket and skirt to the suit. She placed the blouse in Santana's dry cleaning. Finding the correct shoe box, she put the heels up.

Sighing, she walked out of the closet. She headed for the bedroom door, when she heard Santana wimper. She turned around and looked at her. She wanted nothing more to go back downstairs, make a sandwich, eat it and then head to one of the other bedrooms to wind down and eventually go to sleep herself. She'd set an alarm and get up to make breakfast. She'd wake San up and then they would talk. She had a plan, but that single wimper destroyed it all.

"Q?"

"Yeah, S?"

"Stay with me, please."

And, she broke. She knew that she wouldn't leave her friend alone that night. She would sleep in the bed with her.

"Let me go get my stuff and change."

"Okay."

"Go ahead and go to sleep. I'll be right back. I promise."

She heard a thump and assumed that it was San laying back down. She ran down the stairs and gathered her bags. She chose the room next to Santana's master bedroom, only because it was next door and it was just as big, for the simple fact that she wasn't sure how long she was actually going to be staying. She changed quickly into a pair of loose boxers and an old t-shirt before making her way back into the other room.

She could hear Santana's light snoring and couldn't help but smile. Many nights it was that sound that let her know that she was safe and no one could hurt her anymore. San had protected her before, yelled at her, and told her what she thought about what Quinn was doing with her life. It was time for her to repay the favor. She knew that it would be a hard road and a difficult road for them both. She only hoped that Santana wouldn't fight her too much.

"Q?"

"I'm hear, S," she told her as she slipped into the bed.

"It hurts."

"I know, sweetie."

"Why does it hurt so much?" she asked her.

"Because you loved her," Quinn replied.

"Hold me?"

Quinn knew how much it took for her to ask that, so she reluctantly agreed. Scooting closer, she gathered the Latina in her arms and held her close. Slowly, Santana fell back asleep. She let out a sigh and snuggled down into the ridiculously comfortable bed. Staring at the ceiling, she let herself try to be lulled to sleep by Santana's even breathing.

"Happy Valentine's Day, San," she whispered in the dark before succumbing the peaceful feelings she had in the bed, holding her, knowing the morning was going to be a bitch.

Santana's eyes flew open at her words. Memories, good and painful, hit her harder. She burrowed deeper into Quinn's arms hoping to make them go away. When that didn't work, she ran her hand up Q's shirt and softly, reverently ran her hands over the scars from her wreck.

She knew that Q was self-conscious about them, but for Santana, they never took away from the blonde's beauty. If anything, they just made her more bad ass. She laid her head over Quinn's heart and listened to the quiet thump thump of it. She knew that they would have to talk in the morning. She wasn't stupid. She remembered the pact that made that morning, in the hotel, after Schue's non-wedding.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Q," she stated, gave a little laugh and then continued. "What is it about you and me on Valentine's Day that always gets you in my bed?"

"Just can't resist you, S," Quinn quipped sleepily.

"It's because I am so hot."

"True story," Quinn replied.

"Wanky," Santana said very groggily.

"Go back to sleep, San. I am not leaving. I'll hold you tonight. I promise."


End file.
